


Ship's Discipline

by DrDom



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: BDSM, Character Study, Episode tag: s3e15 Harbinger, M/M, Spanking, Spoilers for Season 3, asexual porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:06:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2697368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrDom/pseuds/DrDom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We're a long way from our higher command structures out here,” Hayes said. “Senior officers have a lot of responsibility.”</p>
<p>“Which some discharge better than others,” said Malcolm bitterly, all his self-disgust surfacing again.</p>
<p>Hayes shrugged. “It matters when we make an error. If our subordinates mess up we deal with them, but you can't go to the Captain every time you make a mistake. It can help to have an alternative way of receiving discipline. A physical way.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Damn!” The shout reverberated around the Armory. Heads snapped round to see Lieutenant Reed trying to wring some life back into his hand while a phase pistol lay in pieces on the floor.

“Are you ok, sir …”

“Stay back!” Malcolm nearly shouted at the ensign who was advancing towards him. Gingerly he reached down and deactivated the exposed power cell of the pistol. Muttering imprecations under his breath, Malcolm picked up the pieces, inspecting them carefully. Finally convinced of their safety, he looked up to find the attention of the entire Armory on himself.

“It's all right,” Malcolm said. He almost gave the order to carry on but bit down on it. “Gather round,” he snapped instead. If anyone else had done what he, stupidly, had just done, this would be the consequence. He didn't get to wriggle out of it just because he was in charge.

His entire shift crew of half a dozen around him, Malcolm took them through, in excruciating detail, how he had been adjusting the pistol to take Commander Tucker's new power cells when it had short-circuited (through his hand), owing to his failure to switch the pistol's internal safety on. “Live ordnance, out of immediate control contact,” Malcolm concluded, his voice grim. “My lack of attention to basic protocol could have caused a serious incident.”

The crew shifted uneasily as he publicly dictated the events and his own failings into the Armory log. Finally he dismissed them.

Malcolm spent the rest of the shift painstakingly adjusting all ten of the new power cells. His responsibility, he refused to allow himself to delegate given his unpardonable lapse. He was still at it as the shift ended and he dismissed his crew. 

“Christ, I'm glad he didn't go to town on me like that when I dropped the torpedo.” Ensign Tani's voice, not meant to be overheard, floated down from the upper deck. Crewman Eliot's laughing response was cut off by the door. Malcolm shook his head, angrily. Tani had made a mistake! They'd picked up the casing, and no harm had been done. It wasn't ideal, but his people were good and she wouldn't make that error again. And she was his subordinate – ultimately it had been his responsibility. He slammed his hand into the bench. Didn't they understand, any of them, that it was far, far worse for him to make an error than for them? _Enterprise_ , its crew, the ship, they were his responsibility. Out there in the Expanse a false move from Tani could cause problems, but one from him could get them all killed. He couldn't afford to make mistakes, too many people were counting on him, but that seemed to be all he did these days. If he wasn't good enough, if he kept on failing, people would die. 

Malcolm stared miserably at the bulkhead. He should have noticed Shran's treachery earlier, should never have let the Andorian's tactical officer anywhere near the Armory. He had failed when D'Jamat took over the ship, it had been the Captain not him who had saved them from the Triannons. He should have paid more attention to the debris field when they had Degra. And the fight with Hayes … Malcolm swallowed hard, thankful for the empty Armory. He had twice faced Captain Archer as the result of his own stupidity. He would much have preferred to let Hayes pummel him into the ground than hear the Captain drive home just how much he had let him down. 

“Lieutenant.” The speaker was nearby, and Malcolm jumped, sending a pair of the pistols skittering onto the floor.

“Damn everything!” Malcolm swore. He snatched up the pistols – thankfully still minus their power cells – and rounded on the newcomer. “What the hell do you think you're playing at, Major, sneaking around a weapons area!”

Mayor Hayes waited for Malcolm to put the pistols down, his face scrupulously unreadable. “I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to startle you,” he said.

Malcolm glared at him. Even that sentence was an insult. Malcolm was ordnance officer, tactical officer, and head of security; he should not be capable of being startled. He had let his guard down, and Hayes had – of course! – been the one to see. “Did you have anything you wanted, or were you just here for the exercise?” he enquired. 

Hayes face betrayed a flicker of – something. Malcolm knew he was getting close to the line, but right now he didn't care. 

“You said the new phase pistols would be ready, I requested two for target practise.”

“Well they're not ready!” Malcolm exploded. “Do they look ready to you?” He flung away from the bench, the rage boiling over from him. “They're not ready because I'm so bloody stupid I nearly fry the first one and put my people in danger because _they've not had enough of that out here already_ and if the bloody Xindi don't kill us first I probably will!” He was panting, words spilling from him, several lights years and still accelerating beyond giving a damn that Hayes was listening. 

“Sir –” Hayes began. 

Malcolm rounded on him furiously. “Isn't this what you always wanted?” he demanded. “My incompetence, oh so much less than your precious MACO battle experience. Everything would be better with you in charge, never making a mistake, never letting anyone down.” He was in Hayes' face, all his self-loathing lashing out. For a second Hayes tensed, and Malcolm deliberately goaded him, an intense longing for Hayes to raise his fists curdling his insides. 

“Sir,” Hayes began again, the tension in his shoulders relaxing, “the training area is free if you want it.”

“What?” Malcolm spat.

“If you need to let things out,” Hayes said, his voice matter-of-fact. “I suggest you use the punch bag. I would offer to spar, but the Captain might have something to say.”

The mention of their previous humiliation tore the remaining shred of Malcolm's self control. “A punch bag doesn't hit back!” he yelled.

“Sir, why would you want to be hit back?”

“ _Because I deserve it_!”

The moment hung between them. Malcolm felt the fury draining from him. “The pistols will be ready tomorrow. Just get out.” Malcolm ran his hands through his hair, disgust at himself seeping out his pores. Hayes did not move. “I said tomorrow, Major.”

“There is another way, sir.” Hayes' voice was quiet. 

“What do you mean?” Malcolm asked. He met Hayes' eyes, and was startled by their clarity. The mask Hayes usually wore seemed to have vanished, and Malcolm felt the shock of contact with something real beneath that surface. 

“Another way for you to get the punishment you think you deserve.”

Malcolm was rooted to the spot, a feeling like a bucket of ice-cubes going down his spine. Had he heard that? Was Hayes really – Malcolm paused, a comment once accidentally overheard floating into his mind: _they certainly are cut from the same cloth_. He forced himself to swallow in his suddenly dry throat. Maybe Hayes did know what he was talking about. Maybe Hayes did understand what he was going through. And maybe – maybe! – he could trust Hayes to give him what he needed.

“What …” Malcolm cleared his throat. “What did you have in mind?”

The clear eyes held his. “My quarters, one hour.” Hayes gave a slight shrug. “If you'd like.”

Malcolm felt he couldn't breathe. He dismissed Hayes with a brief jerk of his head. He didn't want to think about what had just happened. Two pistols remained on the bench; they would take him the best part of an hour to finish, and then he would be done. And then –?


	2. Chapter 2

Malcolm stepped out of the turbolift four doors down from Hayes' quarters, still not entirely sure how he had ended up on D-deck. He had been convinced when he left the Armory that he was heading for the Mess Hall. The corridor was empty. He strode down the passageway, then paused.

 _Damn_. He had probably half a minute at most before someone came round the corner and caught him hesitating outside Hayes' quarters. He must look a right bloody fool. He could press the buzzer or not, a binary strategic decision. Don't press – and an evening of meat loaf, the gym, and half the night lying in bed chewing on today's failures. Press – and what?

He pressed the buzzer.

Hayes was standing in the doorway as it opened. “Sir,” he said.

“Major,” Malcolm replied. 

There was a brief silence, then: “Won't you come in, sir?” said Hayes.

Malcolm stepped over the threshold, the hiss of the door behind him raising the tension in his shoulders. His eyes took in the room. Hayes had obviously been sitting at his desk, report PADDs set at geometrical angles on the otherwise empty surface. The room was spare, utilitarian, and almost completely devoid of private items. This had the paradoxical effect of making it seem even more personal to the Major.

Hayes was standing, relaxed but alert, evidently waiting for Malcolm to speak. There was an air of heightened reality about the room, Malcolm's whole body battle-ready and hyper-aware of his surroundings. No weapons. Comm systems within easy reach. He knew he was a match for Hayes in a fight. He could find out what was going on, and he could leave. And if Hayes ended up thinking he was an idiot, that was hardly any more than he deserved.

“I believe you had a suggestion, Major.” Malcolm was surprised he'd managed to keep his voice steady. 

“If you would like.” It took Malcolm a second to realise Hayes had dropped his usual 'sir'. “What happens in this room stays here,” Hayes said. “This is outside the command structure. Outside MACO or Starfleet.”

Malcolm considered this. “Agreed.”

“Look around the room and pick an object.”

“Why?”

“We're not interested in the object, just the name.”

“All right, the table.”

“Remember it,” Hayes said. “When you say 'table', everything stops. You can stop, or leave, at any point. Do you understand?”

Malcolm's body seemed to make its own decision. He felt himself relax, every muscle losing its tension, a sudden, visceral understanding that he could trust this room, this situation, and he could – somehow – trust Hayes. “I understand,” he said.

Hayes nodded, and again Malcolm saw how his gaze cleared, like water in a rockpool that had been reflecting the sky that suddenly shifted to allow him to look in the depths. When Hayes spoke, his voice was still matter-of-fact, as if the situation was to him entirely straightforward. “We're a long way from our higher command structures out here,” he said. “Senior officers have a lot of responsibility.”

“Which some discharge better than others,” said Malcolm bitterly, all his self-disgust surfacing again. He couldn't believe he was in this situation. He ought to be able to deal with his own mistakes, but it seemed he just piled failure on top of pathetic failure. 

Hayes shrugged. “It matters when we make an error. If our subordinates mess up we deal with them, but you can't go to the Captain every time you make a mistake. It can help to have an alternative way of receiving discipline. A physical way.”

“Are you going to suggest I drop and give you ten?”

“I was thinking more of six of the best.”

Malcolm drew his breath in sharply. At once it seemed that this had been the unarticulated thought behind the instinct, half hope and half apprehension, that had driven him here. He was very clearly aware of Hayes standing there, shoulders square in his uniform, well-build arms leading down to powerful hands. With the sudden rush of vertigo of stepping into the unknown, Malcolm made his decision.

“All right,” he said.


	3. Chapter 3

Hayes stripped off his jacket. The plain undershirt sat tight against his torso, short sleeves close on his muscular upper arms. Malcolm's breath hitched. What was he going to –?

“Take off your uniform,” said Hayes. “Flight suit and shirt.”

_Shit_. Malcolm hesitated, then mentally shook himself. Whatever Hayes had in mind, it was no more than he deserved. And maybe Hayes could find something – anything – that would rid him of the awful sense of failure whenever he thought of his responsibilities. Malcolm's mouth twisted, and he kicked off his boots and socks, stepping out of his suit. His shirt followed and he stood, miserable and half-defiant, in his blues in front of Hayes.

Hayes scrutinised him. “Pick up your uniform,” he said.

Flushing, Malcolm bent down to snatch up his clothes. Of course he shouldn't simply dump them on the floor: a Starfleet uniform was important. That was just another way in which he managed to fail everyone and everything that ever mattered. He folded his flight suit over the back of the chair.

“Good,” said Hayes. “Do you remember your word?”

_Table_. “Yes.”

“Over here.” Hayes sat down on the bed. Malcolm walked over to him, feeling the rough carpet under his bare feet. He felt extremely exposed in his brief t-shirt and short boxers.

Hayes gestured briefly. “Here,” he instructed. A sensation Malcolm couldn't name flared in his stomach as he realised he was being told to lie across Hayes' lap. For a second Malcolm nearly stopped everything. Physical chastisement, although out of his direct experience, made sense to the fighting man in him. The position Hayes was requiring, intimate and humiliating, did not.

“Here,” Hayes repeated, his whole manner still exactly as if he were giving Malcolm instruction in a new training protocol. It was that matter-of-fact tone that kept Malcolm together. He leaned forward, allowing Hayes to manoeuvre him into position. His feet brushing the floor, he lay across Hayes' lap with his upper body braced on the bed. He could feel the warmth of Hayes' body, his closeness. His hands rested briefly on his back, and Malcolm's skin tingled through the thin t-shirt at that touch.

He felt cool air hit his back as Hayes pushed up his t-shirt. Hayes' hands moved down to the waistband of his boxers, and Malcolm flinched violently. 

“No.” Heart hammering and his breath shallow, he fought for control. Hayes pressed a hand firmly into his back, and the warmth and weight gradually helped Malcolm calm down. Again, his body seemed to come to its own decision independent of his mind, and he relaxed, not surrendering to Hayes, but trusting him. 

“OK?” Hayes' voice was calm.

Malcolm jerked his head. “OK.”

Hayes took hold of his boxers and pushed them down his thighs. Malcolm lay, exposed, Hayes pressing one strong hand to his back, the other to his bare backside. “Tell me why this is happening,” he said. “Tell me why you need punishment.”

Malcolm tried to gather his scattered thoughts together. “Because I'm not good enough.”

“Tell me details,” said Hayes.

Details? There was too much … Malcolm tried to think. Pistols. “I put my people in danger. I didn't switch off the secondary safety on the phase pistol when I took it apart.”

“What else?”

“I can't get my target test score above eight.” Malcolm gritted his teeth at the admission. “We don't know where we're going. If I can't shoot straight it'll be the mining colony and that drone all over again.”

“What else?”

“The Triannons boarded us!” The memory seared into Malcolm's head. “Locked in my quarters, nothing I could think of worked. It was the Captain who got us out of that and _it should have been me_.” He swallowed hard. “The Captain …”

“Tell me.”

“In there with Degra. All I had to do was keep the ship out of the debris, and I didn't and he could have been killed.” Malcolm shoved his fists into the covers. “He needs someone he can rely on, and I let him down. Fighting while that alien was doing god-knows-what to the ship! He should've thrown me in the brig but he didn't because he needs his bloody tactical officer in the middle of a war zone!”

“What else?” Hayes' voice was quieter, but Malcolm was too far gone to care.

“ _Everything!_ ” he shouted. “The Andorians. That alien we found in the pod. They come here and harm the ship and I don't notice or I can't stop them because I'm too stupid, and it's just been luck we've escaped so far! Whatever we're going into will be a hundred times worse. I can't control what's out there, I can't keep everyone safe.” His felt his voice break. “I'm not good enough.”

Malcolm felt each failure as a shard fracturing in his head. Hayes' hands still pressed into him, and he lay there, allowing them to control and confine him. The worst had now been said. The consequences here were out of his hands.

Hayes spoke, his voice quiet. “Is that everything?”

Malcolm nodded.

“All right,” said Hayes. “You are now going to receive punishment. I will determine the extent and duration. You still have your word. Do you understand?”

_Table_. “I understand.”


	4. Chapter 4

Malcolm felt Hayes' hand shift position on his bare backside, the movement over the sensitive skin sending ripples of sensation up his back. The strong hand was large enough to cover almost all his backside. His chest tightened and he felt his breathing become shallow. Blood pounded adrenaline into Malcolm's system as he felt Hayes' hand leave contact with his skin. He stopped breathing altogether, bracing himself as he felt Hayes bring his arm down.

_Christ_. The blow forced the breath from his lungs in a gasp. It had landed largely on his right cheek, and sharp pain radiated out down his leg and up his back.

_Shit_. He hadn't even noticed Hayes lifting his arm. The second blow covered his left cheek, the sound, loud in the small room, registering a brief moment before the new pain hit. A third and fourth blow landed in quick succession, and Malcolm fought to process the new sensations, to deal with the pain and lock it inside. By the fifth blow he was using a significant amount of control to stay still and silent, his face hidden in the covers, his whole body rigid. The levels of pain had grown astonishingly quickly, each new strike overlaying and adding to the ones before. The sixth jolted another gasp from him, and through the new stinging he felt Hayes' hand slowly cup his aching backside. He desperately wanted to writhe in his hands, and he fought that urge strongly.

“That was the first six,” said Hayes, calmly. 

Malcolm bit down on a sound that nearly escaped him. He just had time to pull in two deep breaths when Hayes' hand made contact again. The brief pause, far from diminishing the pain, seemed to have made his backside even more sensitive to the sting of the new blow. He could feel the sweat running down his face as it pressed into the sheets. As the second and third blows fell he scrambled to keep the pain at bay, using his training and experience to shut it up tightly away from himself. He must not lose control, must not let it out. Four. Five. He was receiving punishment, he had to be still and silent. If he couldn't deal with this, what would happen if he were in a fight, or injured, or captured? He had to be able to cope with whatever the Xindi could do to him. He pushed his body further away from his mind as Hayes' hand came down again.

“Second six.” Hayes seemed to be speaking a long way away. 

Malcolm concentrated on getting his ragged breathing under control, and it was several moments before he realised that Hayes was still pausing. Confusion flared in his mind: was it over? Surely that wasn't enough?

Hayes spoke. “This isn't about dealing with pain,” he said. “We both know you can do that. This is about letting yourself feel it.” 

_No_. Malcolm shook his head. He couldn't.

“This pain is not your enemy,” Hayes said, quietly.

Malcolm was still trying to process this when the next blow caught him off guard. Whether from Hayes' words or the surprise, he found himself arching backwards, the breath hissing through his teeth. Tears stung in his eyes and he shut them tightly to keep them from falling. He could feel his mental barriers start to buckle. Hayes' hand hit home a second time and again he arched, a moan, quickly stifled, breaking from him.

“That's good,” said Hayes.

The praise and the third strike that followed knocked huge holes in his mental defences. The fourth blow, when it came, finished the last of Malcolm's self-control as he cried out. The barriers collapsed and the pain flooded into him. For an instant Malcolm panicked. It was going to overwhelm him. There would be nothing left of him. Then Hayes hit again, and as Malcolm heard himself cry out he felt the pain grab and pull him back into his own body. He was fully present as he had not been before, feeling everything Hayes was doing. There was no room for thought as Hayes' hand came down, no room for Xindi, or failure, or danger. Another blow and Malcolm cried out again as the wave of pain washed through him.

He was writhing in Hayes' lap now. Distantly he heard his voice say “Third six”. Hayes held him, keeping him centred, as the beating started again. He lost track of the blows, crying out at each hit, not even trying to stop the tears as they ran down his face. He was dimly aware of a pause, the boxers hopelessly twisted around his lower legs being removed, and Hayes' voice saying “Fourth six”. The brief interruption did nothing to diminish the pain when he started again, and Malcolm's whole world contracted to Hayes' hand on his backside, himself blindingly, achingly present. Hayes paused again, and Malcolm let out a long, low moan. 

“Fifth six,” Hayes said, and Malcolm collapsed onto him, sobbing, suddenly completely unable even to lift up his head. He felt Hayes' hand on his back as he spoke again: “This will be the last one.”

Malcolm had no clear recollection of the final beating. He lay limply across Hayes' lap, utterly incapable of controlling his sobs. If the blows were less heavy than before then he was in no position to notice. He had no idea he was capable of crying this much. It was not just the hot, bright, pain that flooded his body under Hayes' hands; it seemed like every tear he'd kept inside for the last twenty years was now pouring out of him. His sobs had become hysterical when he gradually realised that Hayes was still, both hands on him, holding him.

“It's done,” Hayes said. “That was the last six.”

Malcolm lay there, crying hard, relief and reaction beginning to mingle with all the emotions he couldn't name that Hayes had simultaneously shaken out of him and given him the means to deal with. He felt Hayes' hands press into his back, and his voice when he spoke was gentler than he had ever heard before. “You did well,” he said, and Malcolm drew in a deep, shaking breath, his sobs finally beginning to grow quieter.

Malcolm felt Hayes reach out, then heard the click of a lid being opened. Something ice-cold touched his burning hot backside, and he flinched.

“It's all right,” Hayes said. “This is a gel. It will stop your skin breaking.” 

The cool gel was soothing on Malcolm's skin. His crying became softer as Hayes continued to massage his aching backside, and by the time he finished Malcolm was weeping quietly into the sheets. He became aware of the reaction beginning to shake his body, shivers mixing in with the sobs that still remained. He felt his t-shirt being pulled down to cover his back. Then Hayes gently lifted him off his lap and onto the bed. For a brief moment Malcolm felt abandoned, then there was the touch of fabric to his arms and Hayes was pulling a blanket over him, pressing down on his shoulders, covering Malcolm with warmth. 

Malcolm felt the blanket against all his exposed skin. It seemed wildly incongruous that Hayes would own anything that soft. He curled into it, his tears only still continuing because he lacked the strength to stop them. He could feel Hayes sitting next to him, solid and real. An immense weariness washed over Malcolm. All his limbs seemed heavy, and his backside had become a dull, calming ache. He felt his eyelids fall, and tried to pull himself awake.

“It's all right,” Hayes said. 

Malcolm slept.


	5. Chapter 5

Malcolm woke. The lights in the cabin had been dimmed, and his internal sense of time told him it was late. He could see Hayes seated at his desk, his body in shadow, the light from the desklamp falling on his face as he read from a PADD. Malcolm felt the warmth of the blanket around him, the calm of the room seeping into him. Reluctantly he rolled over to sit up, and caught his breath, hissing, as his backside woke.

Hayes came over to the bed, bending down to scrutinise Malcolm in the low light. “It's twenty-two hundred hours,” he said. “How do you feel?”

Malcolm took a quick inventory. His backside was by now protesting loudly, his head felt fuzzy, and there was a bad taste in his mouth. His arms and legs felt like dishcloths that had been badly wrung out. “I'm fine,” he said.

Hayes gave him a long look, reserving judgement, then got to his feet. He placed a pile of clothing on the bed next to Malcolm. Malcolm felt himself flush as he realised that, apart from his t-shirt, he was entirely naked under the blanket.

“The bathroom's through there.” Hayes nodded to an internal door. “I'll be back shortly.” He left.

Malcolm dragged himself off the bed and dressed slowly, easing his boxers over the sensitive skin and carefully pulling on his suit. He found his way through to the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror over the sink. His face was smeared with tear-tracks, his eyes standing out huge and dark in the whiteness of his face. He splashed warm water over his face and ran his hands through his hair, then took a long drink of cool water. Feeling marginally better, he went back into the main cabin.

He had just managed to put on his boots without sitting down when Hayes returned, carrying a pair of mugs. “Drink this.” He handed one to Malcolm.

Malcolm took a sip of the steaming liquid and grimaced. It was tea: hot and strong, but quite disgustingly sweet. Exactly what he himself would give one of his people who had been through a physical and emotional ordeal. He resigned himself to drinking it, and he felt his body receive the heat and the nutrition gladly. By the time he was half-way down the mug he was feeling definitely more human. There was no awkwardness about standing there with Hayes; the silence felt like a moment taken out of ordinary time. 

Malcolm finished his tea almost with regret. Hayes inspected him, then nodded, evidently now satisfied with what he saw. Malcolm felt suddenly stricken. He had been taken apart and then put back together in a different way, and he was acutely aware of the generosity Hayes had shown him in all of this. Tomorrow the two of them would go back to being Lieutenant Reed and Major Hayes – not in the same way, not after this, but they would still be different from whatever they were tonight. The moment felt too precious to ignore.

Malcolm began: “Do you ever find you need …” No, that was stupid and clumsy. As if Hayes would ever need a fraction of what he had given tonight. Malcolm had started to turn away when Hayes spoke. 

“I find it hardest when one of my people is – becomes a casualty.” 

Malcolm hoped that he was returning the same sincerity in his own gaze. That was always the bedrock of their fears, the ultimate consequence of their responsibilities. He realised that everything he thought he needed to say had become unnecessary, apart from the most important.

“You know where I am,” Malcolm said.

They stood for a moment together. 

It was Hayes who finally broke the silence. “Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight, Major.”


	6. Chapter 6

_  
**Coda**  
_

Malcolm walked away from Hayes' quarters feeling strangely different in his surroundings. It was as if he were simultaneously still wrapped in warmth, and completely exposed to everything around him. All of his usual defences were in abeyance; it felt like he had only one layer of skin.

As the corridor intersected with another passageway he saw someone approach. 

“Malcolm.” Captain Archer fell into step beside him. 

Malcolm felt blindsided. He had not been alone with the captain since his comprehensive dressing-down over the fight with Hayes, and now the memory of the captain's anger and disappointment flooded back to him. He managed a brief nod.

Captain Archer appeared to feel no restraint. “Out for a walk?” he asked, conversationally.

“I was just going through some things with the Major.”

The captain smiled. “It's good to see you two working together.”

The perceived rebuke cut across all Malcolm's exposed nerves. 

“Captain –” Unexpectedly, and horrifyingly, tears stung his eyes. He turned away, desperate to regain his self-control.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. “All I meant, Malcolm,” said Captain Archer, “is it means a lot to know that my senior officers can rely on each other. As I do.”

Malcolm looked up. There was no reprimand in the captain's perceptive gaze, only a gentle chiding that Malcolm would even think that forgiveness was still outstanding.

Malcolm considered, ruefully, and not for the first time, that the captain was sometimes rather more comfortable with Malcolm's inner workings than he was himself. Between Captain Archer and now Hayes, he might have to get used to being a little less closed-off than he was accustomed to. 

The thought seemed less alarming than it would once have been. 

“It's like you said, sir,” Malcolm recalled: “out here, all we've got is each other.”

“And I couldn't ask for better people.” The captain grew serious. “Given what's waiting for us.”

“We're prepared, Captain.” Malcolm's voice was steady. 

They reached the turbolift.

“I nearly forgot,” Captain Archer said as doors hissed shut, “T'Pol called a staff meeting for oh-eight hundred hours tomorrow. Something about a possible transdimensional disturbance up ahead.”

Malcolm nodded, a mental checklist immediately starting. A distortion could require them to secure all weapons systems, take the hull plating off line, power down the phase canon… 

Malcolm said goodnight to the captain, and headed off to his quarters, now busy mentally rearranging crew rosters. If he liaised with Hayes, the MACOs and the Armory crew could combine their shifts, double-up on weapons checking.

Whatever was out there, they would be ready. 

FIN


End file.
